Love at the first sight
by Sarlyne
Summary: The life of Sherlock and John from a very different perspective.  ...Ever wondered what your clothes might think about you! For fans of Sherlock's scarf and John's jumpers and sweaters!  A
1. Chapter 1

To make one thing clear right at the beginning: I do _not_ believe in exaggerated romance stuff and I clearly "stand with both my feet on the earth" (literally, 100% literally my dears). But this, oh, who would have seen _this_ coming? It doesn't happen every day that- Oh, I'm still so flattered! Let me try to explain this properly, because I think you have no clue what I'm talking about.

My mother was a proud goat, living on the greenest of green hills in Tibet, eating only the best food and she got only the best hairbrush for her beautiful child.

My father never met my mother- you as human beings probably won't understand how this can work, but that's because you have so less imagination, pah! Just keep in mind that it works; otherwise I wouldn't be here. Where am I? Ah, yes. My father...

My father was the sewing machine that made out of the bale wool I was –after brutal being ripped away from my mother's warm skin and after I almost drowned in cobalt blue and black water- an, oh, so _beautiful_ long, smooth, indigo blue, warm ... _scarf._

...

3

...

To be serious, my first long journey around the earth in the aeroplane to this big city called London was exciting. And even the first weeks in the store were fun; it wasn't an ordinary store, I'm nothing cheap- keep that in mind. A lot of people came in and I laid there and watched them trying on jackets and cloaks and gloves and shirts and funny hats...and scarves. But somehow nobody, or only a few, wanted to try me on. I still don't get why- I am so beautiful, am I not? And I laid right behind the glass of the window, so **everybody** could see me! Everybody! Men, women, children, policemen, firemen, bankers, teachers, pupils, students, priests, doctors, criminals, bakers, journalists, photographs, advocates . . . Argh! Somebody, anybody and everybody could have seen me and could have wanted to buy me immediately.

But nobody wanted me and so I ended up in the corner of a shelf between other scarves, which weren't even _half_ as beautiful as me! It was a shame, really, a break of my self-esteem and made me depressive for a long time. I began to ask myself what was wrong with me. I didn't want to believe that it was my obvious beauty. Maybe the price? I really wasn't cheap, but somehow my qualities had to be shown or not? But the store even went down with the price for the half and still nobody wanted to buy me. Sure, now and then someone would come to look at me, try me on, and lay me back. Boring, very depressing.

And then, on a grey rainy day, when I had almost lost all my hope, everything should change.

Lying since almost two years in the same corner, drowning in my depressions and trying to overhear the silly talks of the other clothes –oh, they talk so much, it's annoying!- I didn't notice that someone had entered; Even if I had, I probably hadn't cared, because nothing mattered to me anymore and I was angry that suicide isn't possible for clothes. Stupid thing if you cannot move yourself.

"Another one, another one!"

Selma's (a blue white check shirt) high voice woke me up.

"Come over here, darling!"

"Shut up, Clara! He doesn't want gloves, he already has some!"

"Aww, he looks handsome!"

"And so public school! 3"

I still don't know why so many of the clothes made for men have female characters. It is amusing, because female clothes are exactly like women. Like very talk active women. What else can we do? And it has no sense to think about a Magna Charta for clothes, because nobody will ever hear us and we don't move or have a heart or "live" in the way human beings, plants and animals do... so we don't have any revolutionists who want to change the system or philosophers. We just sit there and watch the earth moving around the sun and talk about the silly things our owners do and _-of course-_ their outward appearance. I mean, it's not only them who want to look good, but us! Why should we want to be worn by someone who is ugly? I wonder if you human beings know about this. What would you say, if you knew your wardrobe is watching you? And we can see _everything!_ Really, I pity the underwear... (But that's not the topic now.)

"I'm not sure", replied Frank, the cloak on the in-store mannequin beneath me. "He scares me- his eyes are so intense!"

"You have no idea, Frank!"

"Yes, you are only jealous because he already has a very pretty cloak!"

"Don't be ridiculous, girls!"

It was so easy to upset Frank and our main activity when no customers came. He was one of the few male clothes in the shop.

Mr Burton's voice, the vender, made everyone in the room quiet- we all wanted to hear, what the customer was looking for. Well, except me. I was still trying to get some sleep.

"Afternoon, Sir! How may I help you?"

"No, thank you. I already know what I want."

And suddenly I was awake. Immediately awake. There was something in this voice, I still cannot tell what it is, that hypnotized me. Clear it was, a bit rough, but not like the rough voice of a smoker or an old man, more like as if you sound a bronze bell, which laid alone in a dusty tower, unseen and not often to be heard, but more beautiful than any other bell. Then I saw the man himself.

Oh!

_Oooooooooh!_

Forget Jane Austen, forget Shakespear, forget this "Twilight" stuff- this is real love!

_Come here, please!,_ I thought. _You need a scarf, you SO need a scarf, right?_

However, it took the dark brown haired man with the incredible grey eyes not more than 5 seconds to find the shelves where we (the scarves) all laid together. I had been right, he needed a scarf. I tried my best to look very beautiful and smiled... I even forgot that human beings never see us smile, but hey, who cares? He's the love of my live.

Beneath me I heard the other scarves whisper and giggle. Of course everyone wanted to be bought by him, but who needs more than one scarf? More than one beautiful scarf? Although I was a little panicking, because I laid under eight other scarves, his cold hands (Oh, so pleasant!) found me very quickly.

The Lord -he could only be from the upper class, no doubt. His whole appearance yelled it out.- stared at me for four seconds.

I smiled.

One... still smiling...Two...smiiiiiiile!...Three...blinkblink with my imaginated eyes...Four...Meow!...

"I take this one." And with a FLATSH he threw me on the table.

Yes, _yes, __**yes!**_ My mind spun around and I was going somewhere to heaven. He had decided to buy me. Me! Not the other ugly things in the store.

5th of Nov. 2004, 15:35 And that is the whole story. This is the beginning of our deep and everlasting love.

My name is Blue, I'm a beautiful cashmere scarf and I'm going to chase a criminal now (Sherlock's metaphor for our first date 3). After that I'll see his house for the first time, I'm excited, really. I'm sure, he lives like a king in a large house with butlers and it's all clean

It was nice to meet you.

...

P.S.: Keep your hands off Mister Sherlock Holmes, he's mine.

-BONUS:

Sherlock's POV:

5th of November 2004, 15:27, Trafalgar Square.

Went to the shop Mike recommended.

Vendor was 42, married since 5 years (+/- 1), had a son of the age of 5 and was waiting for the hospital to call, because his wife is awaiting the second child. Takes me no longer than 37 seconds to deduce this. I'm still sick, damn this nasty cold; otherwise I'd be faster.

Mycroft told I should buy a scarf, since I never close my cloak to the top; that's why I always get a cold- I care to less for my health, he says- he even gave me ￡200 to buy one (how sick does he think am I?). I don't care what he says, but I have to admit he's right and if he wants to waste money, please, he should do it- I'm the last person who would hinder him. Need a scarf.

Most of the scarves in the store are awfully made up and modern. Not exactly my style.

I don't want to go this fashion-whatever-thing in Paris, I'm chasing criminals and all I want is a normal scarf! Something that isn't ruined when it falls in blood, water or mud, can stand the old washing machine in my apartment and the idiotic talks of Anderson.

Ah, found something. God, what is this? Might have been a scarf two years ago, looks more like a dusty kitchen towel now. What, that is supposed to be cashmere?

Blue, black, but somehow nostalgic- melancholic. Like it. Buy it. Case closed.

16:08. Home.

Alone the scarf looks ugly. But that doesn't matter, because _I_ am wearing it and it suits perfect. And it suits my cloak.

Also perfect to be used as towel (-can't find mine, maybe I put it in the bin...).

6th of November 2004, hospital, 11:47.

Molly says she likes my scarf. She likes everything I wear, I wonder if she's planning something? Strange girl. But she makes good coffee.

9th of November 2004, 13:01. Scotland Yard.

Met Mycroft (I didn't ask for it, he caught me before I saw him). He's pleased to see I've followed his advice ("Glad to see you finally obey the commands of your older brother, Sherlock."). I say that's not quite true ("I just came to the conclusion that your orders don't always sound that stupid, so I risked to give it a try."). Mycroft is not amused ("Mummy always said you looked cute with a scarf, but this one is ugly- I want my money back, Sherlock!"). I hate when he behaves like this (which is always the case), so I turn around and go, denying to look at him a last time. He just stands there and is speechless.

Point for me.

(...Yes, somehow the scarf is ugly, but it is my scarf and nobody is allowed to say something against it.)

Mycroft's POV:

9th of November 2004, 13:03. Scotland Yard.

Sherlock is just walking away, after I said this blue thing around his neck is not better than a kitchen towel or a mop. Truth is truth, little one.

Think he's just pissed, because he knows I'm right.

(And Mummy _really_ always said he looks cute with a scarf!)

Geez, how he turned around, with this supposed-to-impress-me look on his face.

Drama Queen.

...

My umbrella beats his ugly wet mop a hundred times!

P.P.S.: Hi there, Blue again

Mycroft just called me a kitchen towel! D:

Barry's (*Mycroft's brolly) POV:

9th of November 2004, 13:03. Scotland Yard.

My Lord and Master had again a little argument with his "beloved" brother. I'm bored by it, really. But I don't complain, because Master Mycroft treated my since the whole ten years we know each other with a lot of respect and friendliness. And I'm glad, because an umbrella like me is a special accessoire and nothing like a newspaper you read and then never look at it again.

But, I have to admit that it seems even Sherlock has found a nice companion. This scarf... I've never seen something so beautiful and female (well, Lady Anthea's Blackberry isn't bad as well, but she's always busy...). I hope we visit Sherlock soon again- I'd like to meet this lovely scarf-lady again.


	2. Chapter 2

Afghanistan was less annoying.

_Annoying_, not _better_. Of course not. I don't miss the heat, the sand or the climate I'm so obviously not made for. I don't miss the stress that makes your body explode, not the sound of a bullet missing you only for millimetres and the deafening sound of exploding bombs.

And I clearly don't miss the cries of aggressors, defenders and victims and the view of their blood staining house walls, stones and clothes. It was too cruel and still is for the ones who are still there. But, as stupid as it might sound, I had never wished that this bullet had hurt somebody else. I feel ashamed for having these thoughts, but only because of this we are here. Alive.

At least he is, I don't know if it is right to speak of us as _alive_; it was never easy for me to say, if we are alive or not. We _exist_, we think and talk in some way, we _feel_, but it is so different from all the other beings around us, that are called _alive_. But I don't want to philosophise about this now, because we did it enough since we know each other.

We, that is me (Jolly), Violet and Leah. Leah his the youngest in our trio, but she was adorable from the very first day; I mean- a black-white horizontal striped summer sweater, who wouldn't love that? Violet is the only cardigan in our wardrobe, a dark purple one, but still elegant. And me, well, I am a silver-grey jumper... handmade!

We are all unique in this house, mainly because Sherlock wears only shirts (Oh, they are high fashion from D&G by the way) and black dinner jackets.

And of course, because we three are his favourites. _John's_ favourites. It is a good feeling to know you are loved and not lying forgotten in a dark corner of the wardrobe. But the other shirts, sweaters etc. don't quarrel with us about it, because we know John likes us all in some way.

And we love him. We love him so very, very much, it is hard to describe. Maybe you can compare us to dogs; we live with you, we are with you for years, share all kind of experiences and situations, we go together through heaven and hell, until one of us has to leave. But I don't want to imagine what might happen, if John had died there in Afghanistan and I think none of us could have handled it. Yes, I know it sounds stupid, because we are only some pieces of textile, made out of wool and synthetics, being used, thrown away, recycled and reused and on and on, changing form and owners. But this doesn't mean we can't build a strong relationship to one of our owners.

That's why I said I am glad the bullet hit John. He's alive and we are with him. Maybe I should add I was the only one of us who was with him in war. As a soldier you cannot take too much useless things with you, and so John took only me with him. I remember very well the cold nights when we were sitting together under a tent or somewhere else, afraid to move and afraid to stay still at the same time. John never cried and I admire this, because I saw and felt how exhausted and deeply sad he was and more than once I wished I could do more than just hold him warm. Maybe I did, I don't know, because then, when we were alone, he used to cling to himself, snuggling into my wool. Above us the stars and around us either the sound of explosions and guns, or the silence... which one was more painful, I am not able to say.

I talked with Violet and Leah about it and they told me, they understand me very well. It's so good to have friends.

And John? He doesn't have real friends. He has some people he knows from school or university, some people he knows from work, but nobody who makes him smile.

What, his family? Oh, let's not speak about them! They are nice people, but... it seems everyone demands to much from John and he's too nice to say no. I mean, we like Harry- Harriot, his gay sister- but she is sometimes very difficult. Of course it is not her intention and she is caring about John, but not in a way that would help him; and I won't speak about her language, John is always delating most of her comments on his blog.

Heartbreaking.

But maybe this changes now. No, it _changed_. Since we moved in with Sherlock Holmes.

My first thought was that he is an "arrogant, freaky, unfriendly, selfish psychopath with a god-complex" and that I cleary don't want to move in with him. The first part didn't change- even more, I _added_ "childish", "sociopath", "idiot", "mad" and "reckless" (...I also added "incredible violine player" to be true. Sherlock is amazing!).

On the other hand, I changed my mind about the "moving in together with the madman", since we run off with him to the case of the Study in Pink. It was as Mycroft told John- "When you walk through London, you see the cars and shops; when you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battle field. You have seen it already, haven't you?" And then he said something about John's right hand; that Ella was wrong about the shaking being a symptom for a trauma from the war, because John was at that moment under stress, but his hand perfectly still.

"You're not hunted by the war, you miss it." I've never seen it like this, but he was right. No, John didn't like the war when he was there, and he clearly still doesn't like it, but at least it was something that kept his thoughts off from the life he had described so often as "empty". "Nothing ever happens to me", he said once and exactly this was the reason for his "emptiness".

And now? What is now? We are chasing with Sherlock through a London we have never seen before, solving crimes, jump above rooftops, get kidnapped... and smile again. It is incredible, John is like new born. This new life fits to him like no other could.

Nonetheless I have to admit that even I could do perfectly without fingers in the jam glass. _Or eyes in the microwave._ OR HEADS IN THE FRIDGE! But it is one of Sherlock's weird habits no one will ever understand and we just have to accept.

Oh, John even found a girlfriend, although they still even don't walk hand in hand or share Good-Bye kisses. But there's no denying, they are in love, the fools. To say, I was a bit worried, if this would work out, because they got not only kidnapped on their first date and Sarah almost died, but because of _this very strange conversation in Angello's restaurant!_

It was the day we visited with Sherlock 221B Baker Street. Evening, having lunch, although Sherlock was still watching out for a criminal to show up. And then, the conversation went from the question if life without arch-enemies was dull or not to the question if Sherlock was in a relationship- because due to John (and me) life isn't "dull" if you have "people you like, girlfriends, boyfriends...". Let me quote those few sentences; John: "You have no girlfriend, then?" Sherlock: "Girlfriend? No, not exactly my area." I think John and me were thinking exactly the same, not only because of the "exactly", but because we knew Sherlock was already different -this isn't meant to be offensive! John: "Do you have a boyfriend?" The probably first time Sherlock was confused, even shorttaken. John: "Which is fine, by the way!" Sherlock: "I know it's fine." John: "So you've got a boyfriend?" Sherlock: "No." I was glad the answer came so clear and quick. Because, Sherlock was definitely much too weird to me for letting him come closer to us as possible. But suddenly; John: "Right, okay. You're unattached. Like me. Fine. Good." I think I looked as dumb as Sherlock did at this moment. Yet I know, it was just a simple general statement, but right then I was truly thinking if I knew John _really well._ All I thought was _Okay, do whatever you want, John, but do NOT tell me you are attracted to THIS man or I move out_(As if I could, haha.)!

Sherlock: "John, I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work. And while I'm flattered by your interest, I'm really not looking for any-" John: "No. I'm not asking! No. I'm just saying, it's all fine!" And he meant it. Oh, I was relieved! Sherlock: "Good. Thank you." I think he thought the same like me. But still, something remained that made me feel uncomfortable for the next few days, until John met Sarah and I began to realize that John's and Sherlock's relationship was closer than any John ever had with somebody, but less romantic, than much more just the begin of a _real_ trusting, deep friendship. And that is why I forgive Sherlock a lot of the things he does. Yes, he is still rude and selfish and according to DI Lestrade he used to take drugs-, but he makes John happy. Both of them would never admit it, but I think it is good for both and they know it; even Sherlock doesn't have many friends. He has _no_ friends- and no, I do _not_ count the skull on the sideboard, he calls his "friend". Well, now he has one and I am happy about it, although I think John will from now on less snuggle into me or Leah. Because his life isn't that empty anymore. (I don't mean he should snuggle into Sherlock's arms, now! Only that we understand us right!)

I remember I said at the beginning, Afghanistan is less annoying. That's right, because what really IS annoying in our new life is not Sherlock, but this damn scarf, he's wearing so often! Yes, I have to admit, Blue looks beautiful and everything, but she...oh, she is like a cloth version of Mrs Hudson! And she praises Sherlock every time and everywhere! Babble, babble, babble...blah, blah, blah... If Sherlock knew what kind of scarf he had bought, he would give her away right now! Have you ever heard a young girl telling about her crush on a famous actor, footballer etc? Yes, THAT is Blue! But thank God she is the only one like that in this house (I don't count Mrs Hudson, because she doesn't share that much time with us and doesn't speak to us (clothes)).

Really bad is it, when Mycroft is around, because then Barry -his umbrella- starts flirting with Blue and it is impossible for our sort to overhear it.

Blue even made fun of me, because my name is "Jolly" and that together with me being a jumper would sound like this horse from the comic books. Then she told me I should call myself a _sweater_ and not a _jumper_, so it wouldn't sound that silly. I told her to shut the hell up, because I'm still an original handmade English cloth and not the American version. That made her quiet, because Barry had the same opinion- like Mycroft he is very into this "Go, Britannia!" and "God save the Queen" thing (-Although he works for the CIA, too).

Well, we'll see what the future brings.

A few hours later: The Great Game- Violet's POV:

If I could breath, I would hold it now.

I am afraid. I've never been so afraid before, but this must be similar to Jolly's feelings, when he was with John in Afghanistan. I wish he would be here, because I-

No, how stupid of me! I don't wish him to be here! Not him, not Leah or anyone else. Especially not John. God, if I were human, I would cry now.

John is afraid, but he can control it much better than I. He's calm, very calm, sitting on the cold floor at the pool, looking only at Sherlock and the man in front of us.

"I am soooo changable!" I hate this voice and I hate this mad criminal who calls himself Moriarty. All I want is to get out of here, but how should we? It's hopeless; I feel the laser pointers of the snipers on my wool and see more pointed at Sherlock. Snipers above and around us, Moriarty in front of us. To our sides wooden changing rooms and a silent swimming pool. The hour, midnight.

I don't want to die.

I don't want _John_ to die, and Sherlock, either.

But all I can do is snuggling myself to John, and listen to his heartbeat.

"Maybe my answer has crossed _your_ mind", I hear Sherlock suddenly say and I look up. He slowly raises the gun and points it at Moriarty and I ask myself why he does this- the snipers will shoot him before he can fire. But Moriarty becomes quiet and he realizes something that is hidden to me. Then Sherlock's eyes glide quick to John and I see, my beloved Doctor nods silent, although his heart is still racing. I look back at Sherlock, a terrible feeling in every strain of my wool.

Sherlock lowers the gun, something in his eyes I cannot describe.

John holds his breath.

Moriarty's face like stone.

I try to concentrate on John's face and nothing else, remember Jolly and Leah.

Sherlock's gun points at the jacket with the bombs, that still lies on the floor.

Good-bye.


End file.
